Turambar
by Min Daae
Summary: Morwen always knew her son was special. But bringing up a future hero has its challenges.


Morwen knew that her son was special.

He was small and quiet in his youth, and kept often to himself rather than playing with the other children. At times she wondered if her own influence kept him from making friends – but she watched him, and he seemed happiest on his own, so she held her peace.

Túrin was a serious boy, too – he rarely smiled, never laughed, never cried. He hurt himself as much as any other young boy, but never once did he run to her crying. His eyes might water some, but he never made a sound.

He was a fierce, quiet, strong boy, and she knew he'd do his father proud.

He was different from the other lads his age; no, she would go farther: he was better. Faster, stronger, brighter, full of life and vivacity. Since the moment Túrin had taken his first breath and wailed his birthing cry, Morwen had felt it – that her son was so full of the stuff of life that the world could hardly hold him, and strained to make the unrestrainable fit within its limits.

She watched him grow with pride. Her beautiful boy. Her boy like a star afire.

"I'm so proud of you," she told him, as often as she could. "You'll be a great man. I know it."

Indeed, it seemed his ambition to become his father at an even younger age. He watched the older boys training to fight, and several times she caught him going through the same motions with a stick instead of a sword. He raced the older boys, too, and sometimes even caught up to them for short times, even with his shorter legs.

Then came the day when she caught him fighting. It was hot and almost stiflingly quiet, oppressive, and she turned the corner to find a circle of boys yelling around a cloud of dust. And over all of them a howl like a demon.

"What is going on here!"

The boys scattered in a rush, and only two were left in the dirt – a young man she recognized vaguely, and her own son, howling like a spirit possessed him and pounding his fists over and over again into the battered, crying boy under him.

For a moment she could only stare, shocked, and then stepped forward and seized her son's collar, trying to pull him off. He shook her hand away, seemingly without effort. When had he become stronger than her?

He lunged at the boy again, who was trying to curl up away from Túrin's flying fists and wailing like a wounded cat, and Morwen swallowed her shock and seized her son again. "Túrin! What do you think you are _doing!_"

Her young son wheeled around, snarling, his face one of ferocity that she almost didn't recognize. Then, finally, he seemed to see her face, and stopped trying to pull away, flinging himself into her arms. "I love you, Mother," he said, voice muffled in her dress. "No matter what anyone says, I love you."

She shook him away angrily, knelt next to the battered boy, touched his bruises. He moaned, faintly, and while he might have been exaggerating a little, it probably wasn't very much. "What did you think you were doing, my son? This boy is hardly matched to you – do you mean to make yourself a bully?"

She scooped up the boy, shaking her head. "Go back to your room. I'm taking this poor child to the infirmary to make sure he'll be all right. I'm very disappointed in you."

"No!" said Túrin, grabbing her arm, suddenly vehement. "Don't touch him. Don't help him."

"Because of you this boy is hurt," Morwen said, angrily. She couldn't believe that her son – her wonderful, handsome son – could act like this. "It's my responsibility to make sure that he'll be all right. You could have hurt him, badly! How many times have I told you how strong you are?"

"I'll take him," Túrin said, defiantly, chin raising. "I'll take him there if someone has to, but I won't let you." He hesitated, and then said, "And it's my responsibility, not yours. That's what father would say."

Morwen hesitated. On the one hand, she was disinclined to leave Turin alone with the boy for any longer. On the other, however, he had volunteered to take on the chore, and it was better that he take care of the boy he had wronged. "Very well," she said, at last. "But make no mistake. We will speak about this, and I will take this incident with utmost seriousness. Do you understand?"

His eyes were downcast, but he looked more sullen or angry than chastened. "I understand."

"Stay until you know he'll be all right," she said, firmly. "And I want you to apologize. Sincerely."

"I won't."

She crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows. "What did you say?"

"I won't apologize."

Morwen looked at the boy, frowned, and shook her head. "We'll discuss this later, young man. Go."

He went, shoulders hunched and visibly full of resentment.

~.~

Her son sat across from her, knees pulled to his chest and expression clouded, half hidden in his legs. "He insulted you," he said, his voice low and fierce. "Said things. I hate him. No one can say those kinds of things about you."

Morwen winced. She knew there were some things floating around about her, but it hurt to know that they were being said to her son. And worse, that they were getting to him. "Túrin, you know people say things to make you angry. You can't let them-"

"I'm not going to just listen to them say things when they don't know what they're talking about!" He sat up straight and angry, and even as young as he was he looked like a warrior. "I can't just _not listen. _You can't make me! And if you won't stand up for yourself- you're my mother! You're _important._"

The kind of thing most mothers would love to have their son say. Morwen would have been more pleased about it if it hadn't been after finding him standing over a younger boy who would probably be bruised for weeks. "It doesn't mean much to me," she said sternly, "That you love me, if the only way you show it is by hurting other boys, other boys weaker than you are, just because they're repeating what their parents say."

"No one should be saying it at all!"

"You can't stop people from saying things," Morwen said sadly. "They'll just say it more quietly, or when you can't hear. That's the way of things."

"But they were saying that you were being – unfaithful to father!"

Morwen froze, as though she'd been slapped in the face. People couldn't be saying – couldn't possibly think that she would betray her husband.

"I couldn't let them say things like that," her son was saying, and he sounded near to tears. "Not about you, not such awful, untrue things-"

Her own eyes stung, and she reached out, embraced her son tightly. "Of course you couldn't. Not my son. Not my brave, strong son."

"It's not true, is it, mother?" He asked, and she could hear his fear, and ached that he could think that she would ever willingly abandon Húrin.

"No," she said, firmly, meeting his eyes. "No, it's not true. And nothing can ever make it true." She stroked his black hair and found a smile. "Your father would be so proud of you."

"He is," Túrin said, with conviction, and the shine came back into his eyes as he straightened. "Even if he's not here, I know he is. I can feel it."

It was only after he'd gone that Morwen realized she'd never really punished him. But she didn't call him back.

That winter Húrin came back, though many of those with him did not. She watched Túrin light up, delighted, and hover on his father's every word, tag after him like a little shadow, pester him constantly for tales of heroics. Morwen watched and felt a sudden sense of foreboding. _Soon, _she thought, with strange desperation, _Too soon, I will lose them both. _

A week after Húrin's departure, when the worst of the winter had passed, Morwen found herself with child. Túrin had been downcast ever since his father departed, but when he heard the news she saw his face come alive again, his eyes bright and so, so fierce.

Yes, her son was a fighter, and fighters always died young.

"I'll protect her," Túrin said. "She'll be my little sister, just mine, and I'll protect her from everything, forever."

Chills ran down her spine as Túrin laid her hand on her still flat belly. "I promise."

"How do you know it'll be a she?" She asked, trying to shake off her uneasiness, but it didn't fade, and Túrin looked up at her and for a moment she could only see him burning, dead before he'd even begun to live.

"I just know," he said, and smiled, and in that smile her doubts broke like shadows before the sun, and she wondered what she'd been thinking.

Túrin was her son; her beautiful, perfect son, and he was special.


End file.
